


A Victory Song in Progress

by angelgazing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys, victory. Written for luzdeestrellas snuggle meme thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Victory Song in Progress

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a snuggle fic meme [](http://luzdeestrellas.livejournal.com/profile)[**luzdeestrellas**](http://luzdeestrellas.livejournal.com/) hosted, oh, ages ago. I also made her beta.

Afterwards, it doesn't hit like Dean expects it to, not really.

The heavens don't rain down, hell doesn't rise up, and they're mostly left standing. The fight is only won on a technicality, and mostly it just feels like they made it to the play-offs because the other team fumbled the ball.

Like, it wasn't skill that got them this far, and they've just got scarier stuff up ahead.

Dean's tired. His limbs are heavy and his head is pounding, throbbing at his temple where he took the worst of the blow. He's only upright on the bed because he's got his baby brother, the oak tree, to his left and the wall at his back.

He keeps his feet stretched out in front of him on the hotel bedspread, three inches of mud caked onto the soles and everything. If it weren't for the beer bottle in his hand, he'd probably be flat on his face already.

Sam laughs, and it sounds rough, tired, _hard_, like he knows it's not really funny. "Dean," he says, full on Oh-My-God-What-the-_Hell_ sighing right through it. And it's not really fair, because Dean didn't _do_ anything.

"Sammy," Dean answers, just because, in his best big brother voice. It seems like a lot of work to lift his beer, but he does it anyway, then grins as big as he can and turns his face in to Sam's shoulder, so he can't see how much work it takes. "Hey," he says, and doesn't even notice that he's interrupting himself.

The Kansas City news at ten is playing, a low hum in the background, but with closed captioning on the flickering television set. People are walking out, slowly, two by two, hands clasped tight, from the abandoned mausoleum they'd been trapped in for days, and it's like a clown car; they just keep coming.

The fire at the preacher's house is a mystery. No current suspects, everyone survived intact, the whole family shaking with tears in their bright blue eyes.

The eight day weather planner is predicting nothing but blue skies.

"Hey," Dean says again, and bumps Sam's shoulder with his, and then forgets to pull back. "Look what we did," he says, and hides another smile, glad when he inhales that Sam changed his shirt.

Sam laughs, this time for real, and takes away Dean's mostly-piss-warm beer just to finish it off. He makes some sort of weird, complicated shrugging motion and cuts himself off with a yawn. He ends up settling again, all of 2.3 seconds later, with his arm around Dean's waist, pulling him in closer.

"Yeah," Sam says, his chin just a little too stubble rough against Dean's forehead. Dean can barely breathe around Sam's grip on him. "Yeah, look at us."

"We are the champions," Dean tells him, very seriously, and is way too tired to pull away. Tomorrow, maybe, he'll feel like making all the jokes he can't even think of right now, as Sam presses a kiss into his hair. "Freddy Mercury would be proud."


End file.
